


Cut Shadows

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Consent Issues, M/M, Sticky Sex, sg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Shibari. Which is a much different animal than bondage.</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

NC-17  
IDW SGish AU  
Wing/Drift  
sticky  
for [](http://tf-rare-pairing.livejournal.com/profile)[**tf_rare_pairing**](http://tf-rare-pairing.livejournal.com/)  June challenge, 23 June ‘who am I?’

 

Drift shivered in the cool air of morning, his engines pinging in the damp air, sunrise sending fingers of gold over his red armor. It still felt alien, still different, even though he could barely remember the white of his old armor. 

The rising sun cut sharp shadows out of the dunes around him, lighting the edges, casting dark wells of shadow so deep they seemed to be pieces of the night torn from the sky.   He looked up, turning, his feet schussing in the heavy powder of silicate sand,  tracking the sky as it faded from orange to lilac-grey, to the star-spattered darkness of night, to the west.  He stared at the stars for a long moment, almost stunned by the reminder. Out there: other worlds.  Out there: the war he wanted to get back to.  Or had wanted to. He…didn’t know anymore.  It wasn’t just the absence of suffering—he was no coward, wanting to hide in safety.  It was that the whole war seemed empty, feeding a machine whose appetite was never sated. 

He turned away from the night sky, peering again toward the east, letting his systems depressurize with a hiss that seemed almost grating in the thick silence of the dawn.

Wing would be back soon.  He dreaded and anticipated it, as he always did with Wing, finding the jet’s voice, body, reason as erotic as he found them dangerous, the two tangling together like twisted ribbons, a jet’s spun contrails. He turned his head again, feeling the weight of the collar, the clasp resting over his Decepticon insignia that the repair technicians had so carefully, so expertly, reconstructed.  Who am I? Drift thought, looking down. An Decepticon? A slave?

The collar gave him no answers. An inert one, this time, Wing had claimed.  And thus far, it had seemed so.  Not like the immobilization collar Wing had first used on him, freezing his actuators, damping all outgoing signals from his cortex, freezing him below the collar.  He shuddered with the memory, even though Wing had explained, his voice silky and sweet, that Drift had needed it, for his own good, needed to be stopped, needed to be taught better.

This, though, was just a weight, a reminder. And in its way, as Wing had explained when he’d snapped the connector shut, planting a gentle kiss on Drift’s mouth, a reward—that he didn’t need a controlling collar anymore, that he could be trusted not to misbehave.

He wanted trust; he wanted to be trusted.  But….

As if sensing his wavering, Wing descended, a golden glimmer from the dawning sky.  Sunlight caught on his dark armor, like a comet falling from the sky, flying faster than the sound of his engines.  He transformed, landing just as the sonic boom hit, pushing against Drift, rattling the lenses of his optics, glass in his canopy.

“Drift.”  A smile, bright as the sun beside him, his face cut into sharp angles by the rising light. 

Drift nodded. He’d been trained to silence. He opened his arms, welcoming, strangely, the warmth of Wing’s flight-heated body against his, Wing allowing himself to be folded into an embrace, purring. 

“You’re glad to see me.” Wing’s own hands wrapped gently around Drift’s frame, gliding up the spinal struts, the bare, swordless channel. 

“Yes.”  He was.  Wing was everything to him. Of course, Wing had made himself that way, training Drift slowly to trust no one but him, want no one but him.

“Show me,” Wing said, tugging Drift’s hips against him. He leaned forward, his mouth, warm, sun-gilded, kissing Drift’s, the contrast between hot and cold sending shudders through both of them as they twined into the kiss.  “Show me you’re glad to see me, Drift.”

This…wasn’t hard.  Part of  him loved Wing, responded to the jet despite, or perhaps because of, how different he was from Drift’s former lovers: demanding where others had been giving, hard where others had been soft, and yet, somehow, still gentle, still solicitous, wanting Drift’s pleasure as much as his own, feeding off Drift’s panting hot desire.

Drift’s hands tugged at the wings, pleading for them to flare open again, shining dark in the sunlight, his palms tracing the planes, fingertips trailing delicate stars of touch along the struts and seams.  Wing knew Drift worshiped his wings, encouraged it, teasing him with them, punished him by withholding them just out of his reach.  Wing purred against him, dropping his head to Drift’s throat, licking and biting at the cables in turn, above the heavy collar, pleasure and pain, gentle and sharp, alternating, each feeding the other.  A paradox, a metaphor, of everything Wing was. 

Drift’s hand slid between them, the palm missing the wing already, even while wanting this: even while sliding down the jet’s ventral plating, seeking the interface hatch.  He traced the panel, reverently, fingertips curling into light brushes, tipping his head back in shared delight as he heard Wing moan into his throat.

He opened the panel, pushing it gently aside, caressing the interior metal, stroking it free of excess charge.  The heel of his hand bumped the spike cover, fingertips reaching to cup the valve. He could feel the heat and prickle of desire through the thin metal. Wing rocked his hips forward, into the touch, giving a soft growl of pleasure.  Drift’s other hand clung to the wing, leaning over the jet’s shoulder to kiss at it, run his mouth over the leading edge, his optics dimming with desire, his spike grumbling its readiness. 

“Yes,” Wing breathed, the word blazing across Drift’s net.  “More.”

More and always more. Wing was insatiable, and sometimes Drift thought the jet wouldn’t be satisfied until Drift had given him…everything, holding nothing back.  His spike released itself, wanting Wing, not caring about morality, or politics or cause or anything other than the sleek tight valve that Wing offered, lifting his thigh, wrapping it around Drift’s hip, sliding it under the scabbard he had just allowed Drift to get installed.  Drift couldn’t resist, rocking back and then forward to slide the spike in, seating it in the delicious, yielding, responsive warmth, quivering as calipers cycled down against it. 

Wing curled against him, clinging to his frame, whimpering, wanton, as Drift thrust into him, burying his face in Drift’s shoulder.  Drift gave a quiet groan, rocking forward again, then back, taking a slow, smooth tempo, maddening them both, building charge slowly, languorously.

“Yes,” Wing repeated, murmuring the word, over and over, that word, like a charm or spell between them, breathing the word into Drift’s throat, his cheek, and finally, against his mouth, kissing the word between them as Drift’s slow movements, the long, slow drag of spike against valve. Wing balancing, wrapped around Drift, crested them both to overload, his hands clawing, clinging, down Drift’s body, writing pleasure in the characters of pain. “Yes, oh yes.” 

Drift trembled in ecstasy, feeling the hot rush of his transfluid from his spike, charge dancing between them, over them, little white sparks against the dawning day.  The stars had all faded now, the indigo receding, pushed off the world by a blanket of blue and white and gold.  Shadows softened, diffracted, and Wing’s optics seemed glows of the golden sun, piercing, yet warming. “Mine,” Wing murmured, tilting his head up, planting a tender kiss on Drift’s rank crest.  “Mine.”  His hand came down, stroking the collar around Drift’s neck. 

Who am I?  Not a Decepticon, surely not.  They fought for freedom.  He…wanted nothing more than this—held, taken, owned.  Who was he? 

Wing’s.


	2. Stuff of Darkness

R  
IDW/ SG AU  
Wing/Drift  
Shibari, pnp  
SO my internet went down last night. I do not react well cut off from my internet. >:[  Have some not-really-porn Shattered Glass AU stuff.

Wing purred. “You want to learn, don’t you, Drift?” His black armored hands slid over Drift’s red chassis, dropping one knee between Drift’s thighs. “And I,” he said, humming the words against Drift’s mouth, “want you to learn. I want to show you, Drift. I want you to know.”  The last word was barely a whisper, the gold optics intense as suns into Drift’s Decepticon blue. 

Drift vented an uneven gust of air, his own mouth tipping into the whisper, optics sliding closed. Wing had saved him and he owed the dark jet everything. And he wanted to learn. 

The mouth was warm against his, pushing open, gently this time, not insistent or demanding as it had been before, parting his mouthplates like petals. He could feel the high thrum of the jet’s idling engines against his frame, like a gentle caress that set his sensors tingling. Wing laughed into the kiss, one thumb sliding over Drift’s cheek armor, down to his chin, until his fingers brushed the deceptively delicate collar around Drift’s throat. Just a reminder.  

Not that Drift needed one.

But Wing was asking, this time.  As much as he asked—wheedling, teasing, making clear what answer he wanted.

“Yes,” Drift said.  He wanted to learn. He’d seen Wing’s swordwork and it was beautiful and powerful and…he wanted it.  As wrong as it was, as un-Decepticon as it was to covet something, he wanted to learn that skill, that grace, with a desire that burned like etching acid.

“Good,” Wing breathed, pulling goadingly out of the kiss, his glossa flicking live current against the underside of Drift’s lip plates.  He hovered over Drift for a moment, optics floating over the red frame beneath him. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, leaning forward to plant a tender kiss on Drift’s rank crest, before moving to one of the wall-set cabinets.

He turned back, glossa flicking over his own mouthplates, considering Drift as he lay on the recharge-warmed berth. “White, I think,” he said, after a moment. One gold optic winked, as if amused. “Intensity. Purity.” 

Drift tilted his head, propping up on one elbow, confused, as Wing pulled out a small spool of white cord, attaching it to his wrist.

Wing gestured him forward, toward the alcove where, every night, he bracketed his swords.  “The location doesn’t matter,” Wing said, softly, pushing down on Drift’s shoulders, until the red mech eased to his knees.  “But this should be special.” His hands slid almost tenderly over Drift’s shoulders, dropping to one knee, the arched greave plate balancing on the ground.  He adjusted Drift’s legs, crossing one ankle over the other, pushing the heelplates into Drift’s black pelvic span. 

The white cord unspooled from the roll mounted on Wing’s wrist, wrapping carefully around the ankles.  The cord was silky, the touch almost like liquid over Drift’s armor. The movement slowed, periodically, like some elegant waltz-temp, as Wing flipped the rope end into a swift, tidy half-hitch.  The rope wound down one ankle, up the other, the half-hitches forming neat little pearls of rope.

And then three larger loops on each side, swooping around his thighs to hold the lower leg assembly in place.  Wing took care, measuring the distance between each loop, fanning them out with a fine precision.  Drift looked up, only to receive a soft kiss on the cheek. He could feel something like excitement—rare, unusual—sheeting off Wing’s frame like an electromagnetic field, little almost-nervous tendrils of twitching, sensitive energy licking over him.

“A lesson,” Wing said, to his mute question.

“Trust.”

A shake of the dark helm, shifting the growing shadows of dusk. “Never trust, Drift. Not even me.” 

A tendril of something like fear stirred in Drift’s tanks. But no: Wing had saved his life. If he’d intended anything awful, he’d had dozens of chances. Yes, the collars, but Wing insisted, with that soft voice that was never wrong, that the collar was for Drift’s own good.  “What then?”

A soft purr. “You’ll see.”

Wing stepped around behind him, hooking his arms by the elbows.  Drift let his hands get folded into his elbows, wrists against his backstruts, and Wing began another sensuous slide of rope, creating another tight sheathe of white over Drift’s red arms. It wasn’t tight enough to hurt—the rope was carefully laid along the armor, not dipping into gaps, where it could cut into fuel lines or wiring.  But he found himself immobilized—the cord, one strand of which he might have snapped, turned into a thick band that barely left him rotational movement.

“Back,” Wing whispered, tugging on one spaulder, tipping Drift back until his bound elbows hit the ground. Wing gave a pleased chirr as Drift’s spinal struts arched up, and the hydraulics of his thighs hissing with release. “Beautiful.” 

Drift’s optics searched for Wing, the angle—nearly on the ground, halfway upside down—hard to process. But Wing’s excitement was strangely, plushly contagious.  He found his own ventilations catching, sharp and shallow, as Wing settled down behind him.  Wing’s shins loomed large in Drift’s field of vision, and above that, the gold glow of the optics from the darkness. 

“Now…?”  Drift’s vocalizer was stretched from the uptilt of his head, his throat laid bare, the small control box of the collar buzzing against the vocalizer’s emitter.

“Wait,” Wing said. The shadows folded over them, the false night of the city settling in through the two high windows on the sides of the narrow niche.  And the pain began to swell, as if it were coming from the shadows, but somehow summoned from the deepest part of Drift’s circuitry.  Wing, above him, sat perfectly silent, perfectly still, optics glowing all the brighter as the gathering dusk seemed to embrace him, cloak him entirely.

A soft moan escaped Drift’s vocalizer, tickling against his throat, dispelling, momentarily, the heavy fog of pain. It regathered, settling over his frame, sharp and blunt both at once.

“Stay with it,” Wing said, his voice a soft music floating from the darkness, the sounds vibrating among the pain. Drift cycled a vent, the sound ragged, optics fluttering.  A soft hum from Wing, a satisfied sound that soothed the roughest edges of the pain.

He squeezed his optics shut, trying not to wince as the pain crested against him. 

Movement, above him and he felt a touch on his chassis. The touch was almost startlingly cool—it was only then that he realized how hot his systems were running.  He’d built a cloud of heat around him unmoved by the night’s stillness until Wing’s touch stirred the air. 

Reaching, he realized, for one of his hardline connection cables.

“I shouldn’t,” Wing whispered, his voice bubbling with amusement, “be doing this.”  His fingers slid, cool and gentle, along the cable, unspooling it, fingertips cupping around the connector.  Drift whimpered, seeing the silver-white of his connector in the dark hand, the pain like a dark fog reaching for him as Wing tugged one of his own hardline cables, matching the prongs, twisting them together. They gasped, systems snapping synchronized.  Drift could feel Wing’s presence as though his volume doubled, the pain on the verge of overwhelming him cascading over into a new system. And he felt Wing’s cool desire wash against his, quenching his pain, turning it from the agony of helpless, trapped struts, overheating circuitry, cramped fuel lines, to a kind of raw, elegant pleasure. 

And his pain became some beautiful weight, something to take, to study. Each spike of pain was a spark of light, a gleaming facet, alternating with rich, jeweled depths.  And it wasn’t about endurance, any longer, but sinking into it. Not fighting, not resisting, but letting it blossom under him, a dark, roiling blanket, not him, and yet his. 

Drift groped, immobilized, for the lesson. Wing would not, could not, help him in this.  And the answer rose from the wine-dark tumult, a pulsing hum of words that seemed the harmony of reality: you are alone, even together. Joined, still separated. Even from yourself. Even from this shell you think you are.  The paradox of pain and pleasure, the erasure of me and he, then the blurring of me, dissolving like ink in water until there is only…sensation and the thing that senses. No past, no history. There is suffering, but it is only suffering when the mind stirs up the label.

Soft, floating awareness, then, spreading over the well of pain, and an effort, harder than any physical move Drift had ever made, to release the label, release the idea that here was a self, in pain.  And beneath that he could sense Wing’s approbation. He had felt, he had known, he had understood. Drift had grasped at the right truth, even while letting go.

Wing was with him, supporting him, mingling with the pain. Not taking it away, but transmuting it, the way a prism split light, taking its hard brightness and parting it into a spectrum of sensation. And the cords bound him, forced him to himself, to this position, to this pose, this body that arched into a sudden ecstasy in a burst of light that unmade the darkness…but he was free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shibari. Which is a much different animal than bondage.


	3. Intoxicating

NC-17  
IDW SG AU  
Drift/Wing  
sticky  
for weekly request: Drift/Wing addicted

 

It was the innocence, Wing decided.Drift’s precious little Decepticon innocence. And that delicious earnestness. As though he believed everything he said, took everything at face value.It was almost unimaginable, such naivete. And it was a rare, exquisite vintage, heady and intoxicating.

He slid a hand down the sleeping Decepticon, fingers sliding between the narrow, silver thighs, skipping the interface hatch, as a sort of tease-by-omission. In his recharge, Drift squirmed, thighs sliding together, a small whimper slipping from his vocalizer.Wing purred, a tenor counterpoint to the sweet, high sound, as he wriggled closer, throwing one leg over the bare hip, bringing his pelvic span against the other’s backpanels. Drift’s spinal struts arched back against him, half-conscious, rubbing against the dark frame of the jet.

“Drift,” he whispered, his voice like silk, liquid and sensuous.

The onlining of blue optics, slow, languorous, and a delicious shiver against him, before the optics focused, locked, and Drift remembered where he was.His hand flew to the collar, mouth flattening in woe.“Wing,” he croaked, obedient to his training, the word squeezing past his tense mouthplates.

Wing curled forward, over Drift’s broad spaulder, planting a kiss on the buccal armor.“What shall I do with you today, my little warrior?”

A tremor, a hesitation, and Wing could feel the delicious thrill of indecision, of what Drift wanted to say battling against what he knew it would get.“…whatever you please,” the voice came, finally.

“Mmmm,” Wing purred, nuzzling against the audio, letting his delighted hum vibrate against the metal.“Yes.”He flicked a glossa under Drift’s jaw.“All of you pleases me, Drift,” he added, quietly, levering himself off the berth, sliding his chassis over the shoulder, mouth seeking Drift’s.

A momentary pause, the mouthplates resisting, before Drift overmastered himself, parting his mouth under Wing’s kiss. That resistance was like velvet, plush and luxurious, and Wing reveled in it, one finger stroking the line where the buccal armor joined his cheek.

He slithered down the white frame, his satin-sheened armor a slick slide over Drift’s battle-battered plating.Wing swore the armor kiss was sweet, the armor under his hands sleek and wanting.Drift twisted under his touch, struggling with kindled arousal, wanting, but not wanting to want.

“Even this,” Wing laughed, at the squirm, the pitiful whine.He ducked his head down, nipping at the rise of the pelvic span, palms sliding over the bright thighs, pushing them gently apart, pouring himself between them.

The red blades of his forearms rested on the flats of Drift’s thighs.He propped his chin on the other’s pelvic span. “Do you want me, Drift?” An innocent question. Well. Perhaps not. He wanted to force the admission from Drift, push him to verbalize.

A squirm, the pelvic span surging beneath him, thighs tense.“…yes.”

He rewarded Drift with a vibrating purr. He could feel the rush of electrons, heat and fuzz, through the heavy plating of the interface hatch.

Another squirm, hands clawing along the thighs, pushing up on his elbows. “Wing, I….” Drift stopped himself, remembering he wasn’t allowed to speak first.Or use the pronoun.

But Wing would forgive him, once, this once. Or rather, punish the slip by less painful means. Merely a reminder. “And you’ve been doing so well,” he said, almost sadly. “I really don’t want to have to activate your collar, Drift.”

A tremble, not of desire this time, but fear, remembered horror.And Wing had only used the immobilization setting, too.Poor Drift. Such a gentle, sensitive spark.Drift subsided back down to the berth.

“What were you going to say?” Wing asked, idly, tracing the interface hatch with one finger.

“It’s not important.”

An elegant tilt to his head, studied, calculated. “But I asked.”

Drift cycled a vent.“What do you want from me?”

“Is that what you were going to ask?” The gold optics grew hard, penetrating.Drift nodded, propped over his chassis.Wing felt a corner of his mouth curl in a smile. “You. All. Everything.”He dipped his head down, glossa sliding along the hatch’s seam. He gave a pleased hot chirr at the shiver that rippled over the other mech’s frame.He looked up. “And you, Drift. You may answer honestly: what do you want?”

Another rippling shiver, something tearing itself, unmooring.“Freedom,” he said.

“Oh, Drift,” Wing slicked his hands down the outsides of the silver thighs. “Don’t you understand that that’s what I’m giving you?”He rested his cheek on the hatch, one clever finger slipping under the catch, before he lifted it out of the way, and he lowered his mouth in to kiss the covered equipment.

“Freedom from those ideals that bind you down, Drift.Freedom from all those ties that hold you back, keep you from being the…magnificent mech I know you can be.” He licked the spike cover, the prickle of electricity from his glossa scattering sparks over the thin metal.

Drift groaned, flinching as the cover released. Wing gave a pleased click, mouth probing the pressurizing spike, tasting the sweet coolness of the lubricant oozing along the spike, glossa skillful over the nodes. The thighs quivered under his hands, as he lifted his head, sliding the spike’s length through his lip plates. “You may speak, Drift.”

“I’m…but this…,” Drift faltered, having already lost the habit of voicing his opinions. “This is just…desire.Weakness. Appetite.”

“Oh Drift,” Wing purred, sliding forward, letting his lubricant-slicked mouth find Drift’s halting, hesitating one, “Desire is powerful. And it’s learning to use that, control that, that will give you true freedom.”

He felt the white mech shiver, clinging into his embrace, as he rolled, pulling Drift atop him, releasing his own hatch, his own valve cover, in one silk-easy motion. “Trust me,” he said, fingertips tracing chevrons of desire down the backplates, flirting with the heavy frame of the pelvic armor as his thumbs dipped into the backstruts’ well. Drift’s shivering, his naked, unslaked desire, irresistible, drawing him in, a sweet lure he could not resist. “I know.”

 


	4. Storm Surge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP (as are most of these, really?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever have a NOT SO BRILLIANT realization? Yeah, was thinking that in canon we saw one exit from Crystal City into a sort of desert. But. There may have been other exits to other ecologies. I know. Not really that brilliant.
> 
> Wing is slowly beginning to win Drift over.

Drift stood beside Wing, rain lashing at his armor as the night finally swallowed the horizon. Wing had been watching for cycles, taking Drift up an exit tunnel far to the north, exiting by a shore, almost transfixed by the way the wind and rain whipped the waves into a frantic stagger.  Wind screamed over his audio, pummeling the greenish beachgrasses flat, gusting through gaps in his armor.

//It’s beautiful, isn’t it?// Wing’s voice was silky and warm over the  comm line, giving him permission to speak.

He didn’t know what to say. //What?//

//This. The storm, the power of nature.  The raw violence. It’s…breathtaking.//

Drift said nothing, turning his gaze back to the storm, trying to see it as Wing did.  He felt a hand slide in his own, palm rainslicked and warm against his.  He parted his fingers, feeling Wing’s lace with his.

//We never had this on Cybertron,// Wing continued. //Weather like this.  Everything was too controlled, too tame.//

//Wouldn’t know,// Drift ventured.  He half expected a rebuke—he hadn’t been asked for an answer, given permission to speak.

The fingers tightened into his, but he couldn’t sense any threat or admonition. //In the gutters, yes,// Wing mused. //No change down there at all, was there?//

Drift shook his head, feeling water drip from the control box on his collar down under his chassis plating. Every day down there was ruthlessly, grindingly, the same. Even day and night there was no change, always that amber-limned emergency-lighting darkness that made faces sallow and sickly.  Except the few cases where the lights had been pillaged for glass or filaments. Those places strobed bright white sparklight to absolute black so thick it felt like a blanket.

Lightning cracked overhead, a blinding white claw that seemed to tear a jagged rend in the sky, so unlike the sparklight of the gutters. 

Wing turned on one footplate, stepping in close to Drift.  Falling rain made a series of lines, like static, between their faces, lit blue and gold from their optics.  He felt Wing’s attention, warmer than the pelting rain, on his face, searching for something, while the hand in his pulled him gently closer. Their mouths touched, the rain-cooled metal of their lipplates warming under the contact, water dripping over their optics, into the small gap between them. //I want you,// Wing said, his voice sultry over the comm, as his glossa probed into Drift’s mouth.  He freed his hands, letting them slide around Drift’s waist, fingertips barely heavier than the rain against the black and white metal. 

Drift’s hands found Wing’s frame, sliding up under the wingpanels, to the air in the narrow space between  the wings and his backstruts, warmed by Wing’s systems, safe from the storm.  He felt desire rise in him, organic, not started from the collar, not anything other than Wing, his nearness, and the tactile rush of the rain.  He tilted into Wing’s touch, feeling one stabilizer slide against his thigh, as Wing bent his knees, drawing Drift down on top of him.

Thunder rumbled, seeming to shake the wet sandy ground beneath them even as Drift’s knees sank into the sodden surface, his mouth still on Wing’s, bucking his hips up just enough to clear space between their bodies for one hand to release their equipment, while the other braced itself by Wing’s shoulder as the wind screamed around them.

A gust of wind, the rain slamming into him like bullets of water, a thousand hard impacts on his backstruts, the backs of his legs, dripping down the finials of his helm as he broke the kiss, to watch the same rain fall on Wing’s face, splashing on the wide gold optics, the way the rain runneled along a channel on his helm’s crest.  Even half in shadows, even assaulted by the storm, he was beautiful, and Drift joined their bodies with a smooth slide, his hips finding their homes atop Wing’s. 

//Yes,// Wing said, his mouth shaping the word, even as the storm tore the sound away. //Can you feel it, Drift?  Can you feel the storm?//

Drift moaned, knowing Wing would feel the sound vibrate against his chassis, trembling as the valve calipers cinched over his spike.

//Show me you feel it, Drift.  Show me the storm.//

Drift growled, one sand-muddy hand gripping over the white nacelle, captivated as the dirt spread over the armor, washing away while Wing squirmed impatiently under him.

It was the only defiance he allowed himself, this hesitation, this pause, letting tension, desire, build between them.  And Wing knew it was a small defiance, only.  In another mood, he might have stopped Drift, activated the collar. And something electric sang between them, carried in the ions of the storm-charged air—that knowledge, and Drift’s recognition that he was being let something slide, and that because Wing found the movement—the staining and the washing off—as erotic as he did.

Drift pushed forward, grinding his pelvic  frame over Wing’s, his spike riding against the ceiling of Wing’s valve.  The jet gave a pleased, aroused chirr, answering Drift’s growl with arousal, like a spark on dry tinder.

Drift dropped his head down, dentae finding an exposed cable. A growl thrummed through him as Wing tilted his chin up, exposing more.

Rain whipped at his back, goading him, driving him like an animal, cold knives of water slitting into seams in his armor, and he let it take him over, as though the darkness and violence of the storm itself possessed him, the wind setting the rhythm of his body against Wing’s,  the rain’s harsh touch guiding his hard caresses as the jet’s dark armor seemed to become like the storm itself, or the land below the storm and he was the air and the water, the planet’s cleansing, dispassionate fury.

He wasn’t violent. He wasn’t…like this. He was a good Decepticon, loyal and kind.  He didn’t…do this, interface on command, bite a mech’s throat until energon seeped sweet and sharp on his glossa, mixed with the cold grey taste of the rain. His body strained, driving against Wing’s, the rain slick and slippery between them, like cool fingers riding over them, hissing over their audios like a siren song of static.

 He didn’t do this. But he was doing it, and a feral heat ignited over his spark, something wild, violent as the wind chopping at the waves, flattening the grasses, spewing the sand against them as  his spike heated in the valve, friction and force, anger and longing, freedom and captivity.  And Wing was the shore and he was the waves beating against it, helpless and furious, rapt in his own need to surge, to push, to batter against.

His cry was lost in the roar of the storm, a half-sobbing surrender to t he forces that seemed to own him, drive him, tear him out of himself.

Wing clutched against him, the hot spill of fluid in his valve a shocking contrast to the cold of the ground, the chill of the rain and wind, his fingers, strong and sure, curling around Drift’s backstruts, mouth parted in ecstasy, open to the rain, to the storm, open as Drift never was…or never had been until now. 

Wing gave a soft shudder, the hands releasing, stroking down Drift’s spine, flirting with the scale armor of his torso.  //You see, now,// he murmured, his voice sated and lush. //You understand.//

Drift lifted his head from Wing’s throat, the other mech’s energon pink and tingling on his lipplates, washing off slowly from the kiss of the rain. He shaped the word. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> So I got bored one day after Botcon when they dared say the dreaded words to me "SG" and "Drift". My version is obviously the, uh, the exact opposite of canon SG Drift. Still, kind of fun to play with, I hope.


End file.
